


This Our Nest

by buttercups3



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Bassturbation, First Person, Fluff, Frottage, M/M, Republic years, Smut, flashback to Marine Years, negligable implied RM2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 14:08:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1513310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Miles away on campaign, Bass frets and attempts to distract himself. "The more arbitrary the night, the more likely he is to die. That’s how fate works, right?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Our Nest

**Author's Note:**

> So there is implied RM2 that you can squint at and ignore, because I originally wrote this for my ongoing story with lovesrogue36 "Objects in Rubble"; there is absolutely no need to read that story to enjoy this Miloe. I sidelined this because it was clearly such pure Miloe, it needed its own home.

I roll over and light a single candle on my nightstand, watching the shadows of the bedposts, the armoire flicker to life, like misshapen people sprung out of the night.

I hate when Miles is away from Philly on campaign. It’s the not knowing, the having to rely upon official correspondence and the rare personal note he tucks in amongst the reports. I suppose I could just sleep with Rachel and maybe that would provide some comfort, but inexplicably I don’t want to. I don’t want her to see how much I need him, how much I worry – that I practically have tears clinging to my eyelashes, because I’ve convinced myself that tonight he’ll die. The more arbitrary the night, the more likely he is to die. That’s how fate works, right?

I imagine the ways: a single crimson hole in his temple, charred black around the edges, his melancholy brown eyes wrenched open in parting agony. Or a sucking chest wound from an enemy sword, the kind that squelches until he chokes on his own blood, foam clinging to his graying stubble.

Our whole lives, Miles and I have gotten almost no time alone to just enjoy each other. First it was Emma, then the Marines, then the strain of post-Blackout survival, then campaign after campaign… and now _her_ , Rachel. I’m forever competing with her for his hands, his gaze, his cock. Somehow I always feel like she gets his best, and I just get seconds. 

I scrape open the drawer of my nightstand and pull out the precious container of lube, yanking down my boxers with the other hand and kicking them off under the covers. I dump the uncomfortably cool liquid straight onto my hard-on and relish the first few slicks. Shit, I’m overwrought and achy, my balls clenched impossibly tight against me. I run my palm up my length as soothingly as possible along the straining veins and the angry heat pouring off before tracing my fingertips around my head and over my slit.

My hand is nowhere near as big and rough as Miles’, but I try to imagine it’s his. Yeah, it’s that night we were urgently horny in the showers at Parris Island, and no one was around. He just looked so fine to me – the cords of muscle layered in his back, his taut ass. The water cascaded down his hair-lined chest, while he washed himself with his enormous hand. When he turned to me ever so slightly, glorious boner peeking past his hip, I lurched to attention.

Desperate, I whimpered and slammed my fist on the wall.

“Oh, babe, don’t be like that,” he chuckled, restraining his voice from echoing. “Bring it over here.”

“Miles, we’ll get caught.”

“Door’s locked.”

He knew how little it would take to convince me. I padded through the water over to him, and he soaped his hand up, then took both of us together in between his expansive fingers, grinding us deliciously hard into each other.

“Come, Bass. Come on,” he coaxed, his dark eyelashes squeezed together. God, one or the other of us kept slipping sideways out of his hand, and he’d pull us back together with a fresh shockwave of pleasure. Finally I decided to lend a hand, soaping my own palm and rubbing it back and forth over our heads above his grasp. We both came almost instantly, at the same moment, seed pulsing over my fingers and his – impossible to tell whose was whose. So fucking beautiful. I collapsed on his shoulder just for a second, and he kissed my dripping curls. 

“It’s not fucking fair how little we get to do that… how much I want it,” I lamented. 

“I know,” he mouthed into my hair.

I’m getting awfully close now, writhing a little in my sheets, sweating into them. I need him so much, I’m silently mouthing his name. I bunch up my fingers right at the tip of my cock and give myself a stiff series of jerks until I yield, my muscles so coiled up I’m almost sick to my stomach, followed by prolonged relief as I squirt onto my belly. Then, still moaning and stroking myself through the aftershocks, I blow out the candle with a puff. 

I’m startled by a knock and think, _Fuck!_ Someone needs the president, but he’s lying here pathetic and drowning in a puddle of his own seed. Then it dawns on me: _his_ knock. 

“Come in, Miles,” my voice rings hoarsely, too high.

The door creaks inward, and though I can scarcely see in the black, I register the tall, elegant form, the soft sounds of his clothes hitting the floor. Of course, I’m horribly disappointed that I didn’t wait just a few more minutes. But what did I know? He didn’t tell me he’d be home tonight. 

Sure enough when he rolls on top of me, all fur and sinew, whiskey and sweat, he complains, “Aw, you came without me, baby.”

“I didn’t know you were, uhhh…” He’s dipped his tongue in my bellybutton to lap up my seed and then trails it warm and rough down through my hair to lick along my flaccid cock till he reaches tip, sucking me clean. His mouth is so warm and comforting, I could die happy right here. Finally, he lets me slip out and thunks his cheek into the dip of my pelvis.

“Missed you,” he mumbles. 

“Missed her too?” I ask trying to sound casual.

Miles knows me too well for that. Sighing, he slides his hand up until we interlock fingers on the mattress. His are calloused and cracked as ever. “Of course I miss her… but it’s you I think about on campaign. Why d’ya think I came in here tonight? I hate, _fucking hate_ , going into battle without you, Bass.”

I tighten my grip on his fingers. After a beat, he slides up alongside me, and I turn to face his hot whiskey breath. There’s a part of me that’s terrified that since I failed him, he’ll go to her room instead, but he nuzzles his scratchy face forward and whispers into my neck:

“Can I rub off on you?” There’s laughter in his voice, like he thinks it a ridiculous request, but to me it’s so sweet it twists my chest into a painful knot. 

“Yeah.” I reach behind him for the bottle of lube, pouring a large quantity into my palm and then spreading it over his lengthening cock. I swear this man gets harder than other humans. Once I get him slicked, he pushes forward against my stomach and starts rubbing a fire there.

“You sure you don’t want my hand?” I check.

I feel him shake his head under my chin. “Fucking chiseled abs… _so_ hot,” he mumbles incoherently, driving his dripping head against me like a burning poker. Christ, I don’t mind though. He thinks I’m beautiful. He’s trying to burrow deeper into me than my skin will allow, and I get it – he wants me to hold him. He’d never say it, but he does… and I do, stroking his damp hair and listening to him pant in the darkness. 

“Umm!” he moans and comes explosively, thrusting at me again and again. 

I kiss his crown and tell him, “Love you,” because I think it all the time, and I worry we don’t say it enough – that we’ll run out of chances. 

“Me too,” he says in such a ragged voice, it kills me. We hold each other for hours, me fighting sleep so I don’t have to miss a moment of how perfect he feels in my arms, deflated where he came. 

I wake up in a panic, sunlight pummeling my eyelids, thinking Miles is still gone. I jerk my legs and make contact with a soft part of my bed companion – him, of course. I’m already apologizing as he groans and draws me into his chest with strong arms. He’s used to me waking up from nightmares and accidentally abusing him. He’s terribly patient with it for a man who’s impatient with nearly everything else. 

“I’m here, Bass,” he sighs, as if he’s read my mind, though he probably thinks I’m twisted up over my sisters or Shelly or something. He strokes my sweaty hair and lets me nuzzle down into his armpit, inhaling his spice and whiskey – always whiskey. I turn my lips sideways to kiss the tender flesh of his nipple surrounded by soft fur and extend my arms around his waist, holding him.

He’s fallen back asleep, I surmise by the even sound of his breathing, but then he surprises me. 

“You could do that some more,” he grins slyly, peeking out from under a dark, arched eyebrow.

“Huh,” I chuckle, sucking in his nipple between my lips, then releasing it to swirl my tongue around its circumference. 

After a beat, he flips me up on top of his grizzled body, all puckered scars and manly hair. He covers both my cheeks with his hands and pulls me into his sleep-warm lips, dark eyelashes fluttering shut, as he relishes me, morning breath and all. I stroke my fingers down one inked bicep, as I slide my tongue into the heat of his mouth, seeking his tongue and tracing its tip.

The light of morning starts to claim the room, but there’s no sound except our gentle sucking.

“Mmphmm,” I say into his lips and feel him smile against me.

“What?” he laughs.

I don’t even know what I’ve said: Please don’t get up? I don’t want this to end? I love you so fucking much Miles Matheson. Never leave me.

But I say, “Kiss me,” because I know he’ll like that best. That’s his language. And I’ve learned to love him the way he is.


End file.
